


The Closest Thing to a Friend

by Foureyedfool



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Canon Era, Drug Addiction, Family Drama, Gen, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No Sex, No Smut, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Canon, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyedfool/pseuds/Foureyedfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft referred to himself as 'the closest thing to a friend' that Sherlock is capable of having. Given the animosity in their relationship, that doesn't seem to say much. What was it that caused the divide between them, and do they really hate each other as much as they seem to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You might recognize this story. I posted it before with the intention of it being Holmescest. I've had some changes in my life and I'm trying to get back into my Christian faith. Because of that, I've decided that writing smut (especially incestuous smut) isn't the right thing for me to be doing. The story will basically be along the same lines as I had originally intended for it to be, but the brothers will just have a close fraternal relationship, and there will be no sex. I'm sorry if this bothers or offends anyone, but I have to do what I think is right. I'm not trying to judge anyone or criticize their lifestyle; this is just a personal decision for me.

Wilma Holmes liked to think of herself as a practical woman. She always _had_ been, after all. She had been independent all of her life, until she had met Thomas. Even after getting married, she had been the brains in the marriage. She was the _rational_ one (of course, Tom would have described her as being the complete opposite; that is, both eccentric _and_ emotional). Her husband was a simple man, but he loved her dearly and she loved him more than anyone she had ever had in her life. Even her mother, with whom she was incredibly close, couldn’t compare to how much she loved her husband. She didn’t think that she could _ever_ love anybody as much as she did him.

That was until October 17th, 1969, when she held her son, Mycroft Joseph Thomas Holmes, in her arms for the first time.

He was a quiet child. He rarely cried, and if he did, he would stop as soon as she or Thomas entered into the nursery. Wilma knew that Mycroft was brilliant, just from the way he watched _everything_ that happened around him. More often than not, he would prefer to watch and only to watch, rather than getting involved himself, but it was as if she could see the wheels in his mind turning as he observed his surroundings.

Mycroft was sixteen months old when he said his first word: ‘book’. At nineteen months old, he could read the words written on the pages. Wilma and Thomas got a bit of a laugh out of their son sitting in the floor of the living room, wearing his nappy and rocking himself as he would read the book aloud, and yet, be so young that he couldn’t even turn the pages himself. Mentally, he was stellar, but he was bound by physical constraints that would ebb away with age.

By the time Mycroft grew to be two and a half, he was able to count up to…well. Wilma had never found out for certain. She had helped Mycroft learn how to count to five first, and then ten, ten twenty, thirty, forty, so on and so forth until they arrived at one-hundred. ‘One hundred apples for all the hungry horses’, she had told him.

‘Mummy,’ Mycroft had asked, reaching up and taking hold of her skirt. ‘What if there’s _more_ horses?’

Wilma had taken a few moments to teach him how to count to two-hundred, then. She was a mathematician, after all. Although Mycroft came first in her life, she also considered numbers to be her babies.

When he was three years old, Mycroft’s personality was more pronounced. He was beginning to ask questions about all sorts of subjects. Animals, nature, people, places, things. He preferred to spend time alone, rather than with his parents, but he was kind to them. By the time he was four years old, Mycroft was even more independent, to the point that Thomas joked with his wife that Mycroft only _tolerated_ them.

One night, Thomas had gone into his son’s room and asked if he wanted to be read a bedtime story. Mycroft—as he always did—had his nose in a book already, and he shook his head and said, “No thank you. I am already reading one.”

Thomas and Wilma both asked a few times after, but Mycroft’s answer was always the same.

Mycroft began school at the age of four. He excelled, immediately, and was pushed ahead in the coursework. His teachers all said the same thing about him. They described him as a quiet boy, polite and proper, and incredibly independent—perhaps alarmingly so. Wilma had taken that to heart, and after consulting her husband about it, the two had taken Mycroft to a child psychiatrist. After speaking to the boy, the doctor had come out of the room and shrugged.

‘Your boy seem perfectly fine to me,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘He’s just _much_ further ahead than other children his age. He’s gifted, there’s no doubt about that.’ Thomas had grinned and nodded his head towards his wife. ‘He gets it from her,’ he told the doctor. ‘I’m rather a moron, myself.’

Wilma had lightly slapped his arm, as she always did when he called himself anything of the sort.

The three of them went to dinner on their way home at a little café near their home. Wilma ordered a salad, Thomas, a chicken sandwich, and Mycroft opted for the soup in a bread bowl.

‘You think there’s something wrong with me,’ he informed his parents once the waitress had left. ‘That’s why you took me to that doctor. That’s why she asked me all those questions.’

Fortunately, the restaurant was very nearly empty. Mycroft’s voice was always so _calm_ that it often seemed softer than it really was. Wilma immediately shook her head and placed her hand on her son’s arm.

“We don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Myc, honey,” she told him. “Sometimes children have special abilities that other children don’t. Most of the time, it’s a good thing. But, sometimes, it means that they need a special medicine to help them in other areas of their life.” She squeezed his arm and smiled. “But the doctor said you were perfectly healthy. _So_ healthy, actually, that I think we can even get dessert tonight. How does that sound?”

Mycroft hadn’t been satisfied with his mother’s answer in the least, but the idea of getting dessert _was_ appealing, so he let it go.

Two months before his seventh birthday, Mycroft had been sitting at his desk, working on homework that he had been assigned in-class. Technically, it was homework that was going to be assigned two weeks later, but he had already finished everything else, and he was trying to occupy his attention. He got so, so bored, and schoolwork was one of the few things that, sometimes, helped to give him something to do.

“Myc,” Thomas had suddenly said from the doorway, knocking on the wooden door that was ajar. “Myc, come here for a minute.”

Mycroft had corrected his father—‘My name is Mycroft, not Myc.’—but he stood up and followed his father into the open sitting room, where his mother was sitting in her chair. She had gotten quite large, and Mycroft knew exactly why. His parents didn’t _know_ that he knew, yet—or perhaps they suspected—but he was fully aware of what was going on inside her.

Thomas held a stethoscope out towards his son, then leaned over and took one of Mycroft’s hands in his own to pull him closer. “Come here, son,” he encouraged. “We have a surprise for you.”

Mycroft had allowed his father to take his hand, but he hadn’t moved closer. He shook his head stubbornly.

“I know what it is you wish me to listen to. It’s a fetus. Mother is pregnant.”

Of course Wilma was impressed by how her six-year-old son actually knew the word _fetus,_ but she couldn’t help but also feel the slightest twinge in her stomach at the fact that she had already stopped calling her ‘Mummy’. When Mycroft had taken to calling him ‘Father’ instead of ‘Da’, Thomas hadn’t reacted at all. Wilma believed that it was her hormones acting up that made her suddenly so _emotional_. She had always been a passionate woman, but she wasn’t often so prone to _crying_.

When Mycroft saw the tears in his mother’s eyes, he sighed and took the stethoscope from his father. The earbuds went into his ears and then he stepped forward and allowed Wilma to guide his hand exactly to where the device needed to go to allow him to hear his future brother or sister.

“Well?” she asked him, smiling, her hand still over his.

Mycroft had had only shrugged. “It is a heartbeat, just as I thought it would be.”

“You’re going to be a big brother, Mycroft. Isn’t that exciting? You’re going to have a little brother or sister to take care of. You’re going to get to teach them everything that you know.”

Mycroft had scoffed, and the corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk.

“I do not believe they will be smart enough for that.”

Mycroft knew that he was different, and he was _glad_ for it. He couldn’t imagine being emotional like his mother or, even worse, unintelligent like his father. He was perfectly content with who and how he was, and he doubted that another child—even one from the same two people who had conceived someone as brilliant as him—would be able to do the same thing again.

As it turned out, he was correct.

On January 6th, 1976, at only seven years old, Mycroft was left, alone, while his mother and father rushed to the hospital. They left shortly after six o’clock in the morning, and his father didn’t arrive home until twelve hours later. He changed clothes and then instructed that Mycroft pick a few books, as he would be coming back to the hospital with him. ‘There’s someone who wants to meet you’, his father had said, and even at only seven years of age, Mycroft knew that the saying was trite and _meaningless_. Newborns didn’t want to meet anyone, after all. They didn’t even possess the cognitive abilities to understand such things. It was just something that parents told their older children in order to delay the inevitable jealousy between them.

 Mycroft wasn’t jealous. He was _never_ jealous. After all, who did he have to be jealous of? Nobody— _nobody_ —that he knew of matched his intellect. His mother was brilliant, but she squandered her intelligence. He could only vaguely remember being a young child, when he would be left with a babysitter while his mother went off to work. He knew that she impressed people with her logic, her sound reasoning skills and her ability to solve any problem presented to her. She had stacks of papers in her office, all filled with scribbles of numbers and variables and notes. Mycroft had only glanced at them once, but he knew that she was trying to work through some of the most renowned unsolved mathematics problems ever presented by mathematicians.

He had researched it, at the library. The library was his favorite place to go, by far. Sometimes his mother and father would take him to the park. Mycroft _hated_ it. He didn’t like dirt; he didn’t like the other children. He didn’t even like being outside. There were bugs outside, and dogs. There were _people._ He much preferred to be left alone with his books. As soon as he had been able to scribble his name (four months before his third birthday), his parents had taken him to the library and allowed him to sign up for his own library card. He had wanted to borrow Timescape, by Sherrinford Lockhart, but his parents made him get Fantastic Mr. Fox by Ronald Dahl, instead.

However, on his seventh birthday, he had been gifted Lockhart’s novel. He took it with him to the hospital and held it tightly in his hand as he walked with his father through the brightly-lit corridors. His father had tried to hold his other hand, but whenever he took it, Mycroft had pulled away.

Hospitals were another thing that Mycroft Holmes didn’t care for. He had only been in one once, to see the psychiatrist, but it hadn’t taken him long at all to realize that it smelled like alcohol, metal, and urine, was unbearably cold in some parts and unpleasantly hot in others, was _noisy_ with the sounds of staff and patients bustling about, machinery beeping and announcements over the loudspeakers, and that it contained far, far too many people.

Visiting his mother in the hospital, it was no different. Upon walking into her room, he saw her lying on the bed with heavy bags under her eyes, a smile on her face as she held a tiny baby to her chest. It was wrapped in a blue blanket and there was a blue balloon attached to a blue bear sitting on the end table beside the bed.

A brother. Mycroft had a brother. A brother he didn’t even _want._

When she saw her eldest son, Wilma gasped as if she were legitimately surprised. Maybe she was. Mycroft hadn’t wanted to come any more than he had wanted to be an older brother, but he had decided that it was less effort to go along with it than argue. He was a very agreeable child, all things considered, even though he felt that most of the things he was forced to do were pointless activities designed with the intention of making friends or something equally as dull.

“Come and meet your brother, Myc,” Wilma had said, speaking softly so as not to wake up the sleeping infant in her arms. Her request made Mycroft wince, because he hated both the idea and the nickname. Still, Mycroft took a step closer to the bed. He could see the boy’s face—red and fat and _ugly._

The wince that had come and gone solidified into a cringe.

“William Thomas Scott Holmes,” Wilma announced, proudly, as Thomas walked over to the other side of the bed and pushed the blanket down around his son’s neck to better reveal his face. “What do you think?”

“It’s a wonderful name,” Thomas assured her, then looked to Mycroft. “Don’t you think so?”

Mycroft shook his head. No, he didn’t think it was a wonderful name. It was boring, but more importantly, he didn’t see any reason why they both had to be named after their father. It was repetitive. It was _unnecessary._

Wilma touched her husband’s arm and looked from him to Mycroft. “I have an idea,” she said cheerfully, although Mycroft could tell from the tone of her voice that it was forced. The woman was clearly exhausted. “How about you pick his middle name, Mycroft?”

Mycroft knew immediately that he didn’t want to. He wanted nothing to do with the crimson lump his mother was holding. He also knew that, if he refused, his parents would keep his--/William’s/--name as-is, and Mycroft didn’t want that.

“I want to pick his first name, instead.”

Thomas and Wilma exchanged glances. Mycroft knew they weren’t fond of the idea. After a moment, his father shook his head.

“Middle name, son.”

Mycroft had sighed, but he knew better than to argue with his parents. They always got their way in the end, because he didn’t like fighting. It was boring. Even when he knew that he was right—which was always—he preferred to let the other person, whoever it was, think that they had been correct, just so that they would leave him alone. Besides, _he_ knew he was right, and that was all that mattered.

“Do not give him the name Thomas,” Mycroft instructed. A seven-year-old giving their parents instructions was hardly appropriate, but Mycroft didn’t give it a second thought. His parents, even Mother, weren’t as smart as him, after all. They needed all the help they could get.

“ _I_ have the name Thomas. He does not need it, too.”

“We are naming him after your father—” Wilma began, but Thomas held up his hand to shush her.

“It’s fine,” he promised his wife. “Besides, he’ll still have ‘William’, which is after you, dear. Mycroft, what do _you_ want to name him?”

There were thousands upon thousands of names in the world, and Mycroft was being asked to pick only one. He was silent for a moment and found himself staring down at the book in his hand, rather than at the eager faces of his parents.

Sherrinford Lockhart. Sherrinford was a dreadful name. Lockhart was only appropriate for a surname. Still, Mycroft _had_ enjoyed the novel, and it would be…not _terrible_ to name the boy after its author. If he took the beginning of both names, though…

“Sherlock.”

Again, Mycroft’s parents looked at one another. He could tell that they didn’t like the name, but _he_ liked it, and they had told him that he could give the child a name. They _had_ to keep their word.

“All right, then,” Wilma said with a slow nod and a tired, resolved smile in Mycroft’s direction. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Doesn’t sound awful, does it?”

“Not at all,” Thomas agreed. “I’m sure William will be quite fond of it.”

“I’m not going to call him that,” Mycroft informed them. “I do not mean any offense, Mother, but ‘William’ is a boring name. I gave him the name Sherlock, and I am going to refer to him as such.”

He did exactly that. In the upcoming weeks, Mycroft only ever said the name ‘Sherlock’ when talking about his little brother. His parents tried to talk him out of it—they tried _very_ hard—but Mycroft refused. He liked the name. It _suited_ the boy. ‘William’ did not. After three months, his parents joined in and started to call the youngest member of the Holmes family by the name Mycroft had chosen for him.

Mycroft still disliked him, but at least he disliked him _less._


	2. Chapter 2

On Mycroft’s eighth birthday, he came to the conclusion that his mother and father were becoming more and more sentimental about the date. What he couldn’t conclude was _why_. Yes, he had been born on that date eight years ago. Why was it so bloody important to remind him—and the rest of the neighborhood; Mother did so enjoy talking about her children—of that?

The cake was really the only thing he looked forward to. The presents were disappointing to some degree every year. Either they were things that Mycroft had wanted much earlier than his birthday, or they were things that he just didn’t want at _all_. Timescape had been a book that he had wanted when he was three, but his parents got it for him when he was seven. What they didn’t know was that he had already read it. He hadn’t borrowed it from the library (his parents always checked what books he was checking out), but he had hid it behind one of the fake potted plants. Every time they went to the library, he got it and snuck it behind the cover of a shorter, more ‘age-appropriate’ book.

When Mycroft had asked them why he couldn’t read whatever it was he wanted, Wilma told him that it was because ‘just because you can understand the words doesn’t mean you can understand the concept’. _That_ was a concept that Mycroft didn’t understand. When he asked her what she meant by that—because, truly, he couldn’t imagine himself not understanding a concept (beyond this one, but he chalked it up to be flawed logic on his mother’s part)—Thomas answered him by saying ‘there are some things that kids just don’t need to put in their heads. There are some things that kids just don’t need to know about until they’re older.’

It was a Monday, and Mycroft woke up to the sound of Sherlock _crying_. He always cried, always. He was a much louder infant than Mycroft had been, and he required so much _attention_. Whenever Wilma caught Mycroft sneering at her youngest son, she would scold him.

‘He’s only a baby, Mycroft. That’s what babies do.’

‘It’s not what _I_ did.’

‘You were one of a kind. Don’t worry, he’ll grow out of it.’

Mycroft pulled the blankets aside and got out of bed. He yawned as he walked to the bathroom, but taking a cold shower helped him to feel more energized. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing special about today. It was just another Monday, which meant that he had to go to school and be forced to sit with a roomful of idiots.

He had been bumped up one year in school. Only one! Both his parents and the school administration knew that he was smart enough to start secondary school—at _minimum_ —but Wilma and Thomas wouldn’t allow for it. Mycroft spent enough time alone as it was, and they were worried that he would become even further alienated from the world if he were surrounded by teenagers, rather than children his own age.

He was in Year 4, which was only minutely impressive, he felt, for somebody just turning eight. He was still ahead of the other children, and he would take every given opportunity to read his own books during lecture or assignment-time rather than reading about subjects he already knew. Simple mathematics, history, English, geography. It was all so _easy_.

Once he had showered, Mycroft got dressed in his school uniform (dark gray trousers, black shoes, a navy jumper and tie with a light blue collared shirt) and then combed his hair. He didn’t like to be seen in a state of undress, or with his hair messy or his teeth not brushed. When he went into the kitchen, he saw Wilma standing over the stove making pancakes for him. Without turning around, she greeted him, and Mycroft could tell just by listening to her that she was smiling broadly.

“Good morning!”

She clicked the stove off and then turned around, scooping the four pancakes onto a plate and setting it down on the counter along with butter, syrup, and a glass of milk. Mycroft just grunted in response. He was always in a sour mood on his birthday because—

“I made some cupcakes after you went to bed last night, for you to take to your class.”

Well. That was why.

Cupcakes meant that people would know it was his birthday, and if people knew that, they would _talk_ to him. They would _sing_ to him. They would come up to him and ask if they could have one of the treats, people with whom he had never even spoken! Wilma had done it for the past three years, despite Mycroft telling her that he didn’t _want_ to take cupcakes to school.

Sometimes he felt as if nobody listened to him, and it wasn’t just because he was a quiet boy by nature. Because he was quiet, his parents would make an extra effort to hear what he was saying when he spoke, but they would not _listen_.

Mycroft, ever the rational child, _did_ try to view things from his parents’ perspectives occasionally. While they were, of course, not as intelligent as he was, they were older, and Mycroft knew that there was a difference between intelligence and wisdom. They could teach him about the way the world worked. Wisdom beyond his age, plus his intelligence…he was bound to be _unstoppable_ in whatever path he decided to pursue.

The only thing keeping him from that was little Sherlock.

Thomas brought the boy into the kitchen and sat down on the stool beside Mycroft. He held Sherlock tightly in his arms, the boy on the counter, his back—his whole body, really; he _was_ small—pressed back against Thomas’s chest. Thomas held one of Sherlock’s wrists and waved his hand back and forth, as if he were saying ‘hello’.

Sherlock was just over nine months old. The first three months of his life, he had done little other than sleep. He still slept more than he did anything else, but when he _wasn’t_ sleeping, his eyes were bright and wide, watching everything that happened around him with the most inquisitive expression that Mycroft had ever seen on another human being.

“He wanted to say ‘happy birthday’ to you, Mycroft,” Thomas told his son with a soft chuckle. The announcement, of course, made Wilma coo and tell the younger boy how sweet he was being.

It made Mycroft sigh. Obviously Sherlock didn’t want to say that. He understood that his father was trying—and failing—to be clever or _cute_ , but it wasn’t working. Not for Mycroft, anyway. Wilma was already going to the office, and Mycroft could hear her digging around in her desk drawers to retrieve her camera.

It was the same thing every year, both on his birthday and Christmas (and any other milestone that his parents felt the need to document). Wilma would insist upon taking photographs, and when they were developed she would write the date and little notes on them to describe what was happening in the pictures. Mycroft knew that it was something that she, as a parent, felt she needed to do, but he couldn’t understand it. Everybody had birthdays. Most people celebrated Christmas. He and twenty other students finished their year in school, year after year. Why did she feel the need to document him, as if he were some sort of exotic animal?

Instead of saying anything in reply, Mycroft began cutting into his pancakes. He would readily admit that his mother was an excellent cook; he would _much_ prefer to focus on the sweet taste of his breakfast than what his parents or younger brother were doing. It wasn’t often that he got pancakes, only on his birthday, and he just wanted to be able to focus on something that he _knew_ he liked.

After only two bites, the experience was cut short. Wilma returned and gestured to Mycroft to lean in closer to his brother and father. He did so, only because he knew that it would hurt her feelings if he _didn’t_ , and then he would be lectured by his father and would be stuck looking at her looking at her heartbroken face for the remainder of the day. Probably longer than that, even. The next _several_ days.

As soon as the camera clicked and flashed, Mycroft pulled back, into his own space. He didn’t like being too close to people, even his own family. What he _did_ like was pancakes. He started to eat again, welcoming the sweet taste on his tongue. It distracted him, just for a little while, from the knowledge that he had to go and face yet another day of being surrounded by loud and obnoxious idiots.

Mycroft ate in silence for the rest of the meal. His parents spoke about their plans for the day and the possibility that they would go to Brighton that weekend for a trip and leave Mycroft and Sherlock with Grandma Jones, Wilma’s mother. Mycroft hated the idea. Elaine Jones had three dogs, all of them loud, energetic, and _desperate_ for attention. Sherlock, of course, loved them, but they made Mycroft cringe.

He didn’t tell his parents that, though. Why bother? In the end, his mother and father were going to do what they wanted. ‘We’re the adults, Mycroft’, they would say. ‘We make the decisions. When you’re an adult, _you_ can make the decisions.’

Mycroft had every intention to do just that. As soon as he was old enough to move out of his parents’ home, he was going to. He cared for them, he truly did, but he didn’t _like_ them. As a matter of fact, he wanted nothing to do with them. He wanted to leave their home and make his own decisions regarding every area of his life. He wanted a job where he would be in charge, capable of doing what _he_ wanted to, not what people told him to do. He would be on top of it all, and if anyone wanted to do _anything_ , they would have to ask him whether or not he approved of it.

All of the _talking_ sounded incredibly unpleasant, but because he would be in charge, he could easily close himself off from everyone else whenever be wanted to. Simple as that.

Mycroft continued to eat his breakfast as Thomas lifted Sherlock off the counter and carried him into the sitting room. Wilma followed along behind, snapping pictures of the infant as he reached out a chubby hand towards the stuffed bee that his father held in front of him while saying ‘Buzzzzz! Buzzzzz!’

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the way his father was acting, but Sherlock giggled. When he did so, Wilma joined him in laughing, and finally even Thomas was doing so. Mycroft was the odd man out. He didn’t mind. That was the good thing about Sherlock (the _only_ good thing, as far as Mycroft was concerned): he took their parents’ focus off of him. They still gave Mycroft attention, but it wasn’t nearly as much as it had been before his little brother’s birth.

Once he finished his pancakes and milk, Mycroft washed his fork, plate, and cup, then dried them and put them away where they belonged. He preferred things to be _clean_. Whenever he walked through a room, he would glance around and find something that needed to be fixed. Whether it was a dirty dish to be washed or a ball of dust in the corner to be picked up, a rug or a picture frame that needed to be straightened or a pair of shoes that needed to be put away, Mycroft would do it. He didn’t do it so that his mother wouldn’t have to; he did it because he hated to live in filth. One towel folded incorrectly (by his father, always by his father) was considered, by Mycroft, to be filth.

He had once heard his parents discussing his behavior. His father suggested that he had obsessive-compulsive disorder. His mother said that he was ‘just a good boy’. Mycroft didn’t know if either of them was right, but he didn’t care. It was how he was, and he wasn’t going to change, not when it was a _positive_ thing that he did chores without waiting to be asked.

Mycroft lifted the container of cupcakes off the counter and pulled his messenger bag over his shoulder. Before leaving the kitchen, he opened up the box and retrieved a single cupcake. He turned his back so that his parents wouldn’t see and ate it, quickly. Chocolate cake with vanilla icing that had been tinted mint green (which his mother thought was his favorite color, just because he had, one time, told her that it was ‘okay’ when she had asked) and had green ‘8’s on top in dark green icing. After he had swallowed and wiped his face clean with a towel, he walked into the sitting room. It was time for him to be heading to school. He was going to try and be optimistic, even though he knew that the day wouldn’t meet his expectations. They never did.

“Father, may I please have a ride to school?”

Normally his parents made him walk. Mycroft suspected that it was both because he was a bit chubby for his age and they thought he needed exercise, and also because they just didn’t want to have to take him. The school wasn’t far from their home, only a bit less than two kilometers. Even though he was young, his parents decided early on that he was capable of making the journey on his own. He agreed with them. That being said, he didn’t like the walk. Physical activity of any sort was not something that Mycroft Holmes went out of his way to pursue. This time, though, he hoped that the extra load he would have in his hands from the box of cupcakes would convince his father to take him.

Thomas glanced at Wilma briefly before nodding. He smiled up at his son as he pushed himself off the floor, giving his wife the stuffed bee so that she could continue using it to play with Sherlock.

“Of course, son. Let me go get my briefcase and then we can go.”

Mycroft waited patiently as Thomas left the room to go and get his things. Wilma looked at her son, extending her hand so that Mycroft would take it. He didn’t. He walked closer to her and his brother, but he didn’t touch the woman.

“Do you want to hold him, Mycroft?”

Mycroft didn’t even _think_ about the question before he answered it by shaking his head ‘no’. Why would he want to hold Sherlock? Why would he want to hold a little child that was loud and drooled and soiled his nappy? Why would _anyone_ want to do that?

“He’s smart,” Wilma said, seemingly unaffected Mycroft’s answer. “Like his big brother.”

The comment made Mycroft scoff. Nobody was as smart as he was, and nobody ever would be, least of all the fat, bright-eyed baby that was sitting on the floor. He didn’t say anything, though, because even though he _knew_ he was right, he didn’t want to start an argument with his mother. She was so, so _emotional_.

When Thomas returned to the sitting room, he bent down and kissed the top of Sherlock’s curly head before zipping up his jacket and beckoning for Mycroft to follow him. Mycroft was already nearing the door. The longer that he lingered, the more likely it became that his mother would ask him for a goodbye kiss.

Thomas put his hand on Mycroft’s back and guided him out the door. Immediately, Mycroft shivered. It was _cold_. The early morning dew had frosted over and he could see his breath every time he exhaled. Thomas walked over to the blue, 1975 Ford Granada and pulled the door open for his son. Mycroft got inside, his bag and the cupcakes on his lap, and he breathed into his bare hands to warm them up. Once he was in the driver’s seat, Thomas pulled off his gloves and held them out for the boy to take.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Mycroft assured him.

“You forgot your gloves. Take mine.”

“I did not _forget_ my gloves. I just didn’t bring them. I don’t need them; it’ll warm up soon.”

Thomas stared pointedly at his son. He didn’t start the car; he just _waited_. After counting to thirty, Mycroft sighed and accepted the gloves from his father. Of course they were far too large for his hands, but they _did_ help. Next time, he would bring his own gloves. He didn’t want to, but it was better to have them and have to stuff them in his locker (he had hardly any space in it at all, due to the books he kept in there, books that weren’t required reading for school but that he read for pleasure) than to accept _help_.

He was Mycroft Holmes. He didn’t need _help_.

Thomas started the car and soon they were pulling out of the driveway and making their way down the country road that led into town. The houses were sparse and each one had a long driveway leading down to it. Some of the homes had farms and animals. Fortunately, the Holmes family didn’t. Mycroft didn’t think he could take being surrounded by animals all the time. Having to deal with them at the park was more than enough.

As they drove, Thomas leaned forward and clicked on the radio. He began to sing along to the song immediately, and Mycroft rolled his eyes as he turned his head to look out the car window.

“Why’d it take so long to see the light? It seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right! Sweet surrender, what a night!”

God, the man sounded _awful_. He knew that Mycroft didn’t like his singing—or anyone else’s; Mycroft preferred _classical_ music—but it wasn’t enough to keep him silent, it seemed. He was even holding a closed fist up by his lips as if he had a microphone in his hand. Mycroft was so tempted to tell him to use both hands for _steering_ , but instead he reached into his bag and got out the book he was working his way through—Animal Farm, by George Orwell. He didn’t like animals, but he _did_ like the satire in the book.

Only a few minutes later, they were pulling up in front of the school. The place was noisy, as it always was, and Mycroft glanced around with loathing at all of the other children that were there, laughing and smiling and _talking_. Surely they could think of better things to do with their time than socialize. _He_ did, after all.

“Have a good day, son,” Thomas told Mycroft as he was gathering his things.

Mycroft didn’t say what he was thinking. He was _thinking_ that it would be impossible for him to have a good day. It always was. He didn’t _have_ good days here. A good day, for him, was when it was raining outside (thus preventing his parents from telling him to ‘go play outside’) and he was allowed to sit and read while drinking a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” he said instead. He opened his door and got out, his bag on his shoulders and the cupcakes in his hands.

He did his best to avoid eye contact with everyone he passed. They were idiots, all of them, and certainly not worth his time. Fortunately, his classroom and locker were both near the front door. As soon as Mycroft arrived at his locker, he took out the books that he would need for class and slipped them into his bag. The cupcakes, too, went inside his locker, but not before he snuck another for himself, finishing it just as the five-minute warning bell rang to signal the beginning of yet another long and arduous school day.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft had, very quickly, become Sherlock’s favorite person. The elder brother couldn’t even _begin_ to explain why this was, because Sherlock was so _small_ and so… _stupid_. It wasn’t his fault; he was only a child, unable to process things correctly, unable to speak, unable to formulate even the most coherent of thoughts, but even as the months passed an d he grew older and more aware of himself and his surroundings, Mycroft was _still_ his favorite person.

Mycroft was ten years old; making Sherlock three. The small child was the complete opposite of Mycroft in every way, save for the fact that they both had brown hair and were pudgy. Sherlock was a healthy weight for his age, but Mycroft was actually _overweight_.

The elder Holmes brother knew exactly why it was. It wasn’t difficult to figure out. In fact, it was basic mathematics: he ate more calories than he burned off. He ate so that he wouldn’t have to _talk_. His mother and father tried to be involved in his life, but Mycroft didn’t want it. He hadn’t wanted it ever since he had been a young child himself, Sherlock’s age. Even then, he had been growing independent. He had been setting his own goals—even something as basic as being able to read two books in one day—and doing his own activities. He had neither needed nor _wanted_ his parents for that.

Mycroft also ate because it was the only thing that he could find to enjoy in numerous situations. Christmas dinners--with Grandma Jones, Uncle Rudy, Aunt Gail, Cousin Charlie, on his mother’s side, and Grandma and Grandpa Holmes, Aunt Cathy, Cousin Natalie, and Aunt Charlotte on his father’s—were insufferable. Everybody _chatted_ and _laughed_ ; they all talked about how big Sherlock was getting and how ‘cute’ and ‘precious’ he was.

Mycroft would sit and listen, politely, to the dinner conversation, but it was usually nothing that interested him. From time to time, though, Aunt Cathy and Grandpa Holmes would discuss foreign affairs. They would talk about what so-and-so foreign leader was doing, the new American President or the current Prime Minister. They would discuss which laws they thought were appalling and what they felt needed to change for the betterment of society.

It wasn’t that Mycroft _enjoyed_ the political discussions, as such. But he didn’t hate them. Sometimes he would actually ask questions, which caused all eyes in the room—even little Sherlock, who was normally too busy playing with his food or letting his eyes dart from _something_ or _someone_ to give anyone else the time of day—to turn and look at him.

Because Mycroft didn’t talk very much (and even less in social situations like _this_ , where there was a large group of people who all got on splendidly), when he _did_ talk, people listened. When he _did_ talk, his mother and father would smile or scowl (depending on what was being said), and Sherlock would giggle and clap, as if Mycroft announcing that his day at school had been ‘just like every other day, tolerable but rather unenjoyable’ was some grand acrobatic performance that one would see at the circus.

In an attempt to get him to go _out_ , Wilma and Thomas had signed Mycroft up for music lessons. They had allowed him to choose what he wanted to play, and he had decided upon the cello after minimal deliberation. The thought of playing anything with his _mouth_ hadn’t appealed to him, but he was willing to use his hands, if he had to use anything at all for this _pointless_ endeavor.

The piano was too large, too common. He certainly wasn’t going to play the _drums_. The harp was too large for his liking and he didn’t care for the sound of it; it was, quite frankly, too delicate for his liking. The violin and viola both made him cringe, and the bass was, like the harp, too large. Mycroft didn’t even like carrying his backpack and books. Lugging around a musical instrument of that size was a remarkably foul idea.

The cello, then. The sound of it didn’t put him off immediately, and after a few minutes he decided that he didn’t actually _mind_ it. It was soothing, and he would even come close to saying that he _liked_ listening to the woman on stage performing. That was why he was so bloody disappointed when Sherlock started _crying_ during the concert and, rather than letting him stay and listen, Wilma had taken his hand and pulled him out of his chair. Mycroft hadn’t fought with her. He had been sullen about it, but he was as obedient as he always was, and he kept his disappointment contained and silent and followed his parents out of the theatre.

The very next day, Mycroft had come home from school to find a brand-new cello in his bedroom. His parents’ wealth was something that he could most certainly consider to be advantageous to himself; he got what he wanted, when he wanted it. Mycroft would never say that he was spoiled—although his parents, and others, would probably say otherwise—but even at a young age he was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. His parents told him that it was an early tenth birthday present, but when his tenth birthday actually _came_ , he had still received ten books. ‘One for every wonderful year that you’ve been in our lives’, his mother had told him.

It was April, now, and Mycroft had spent the past nearly-seven months taking lessons. He wasn’t _bad_ , by any means, but it wasn’t a talent that came naturally to him. He never, _ever_ practiced at home. He didn’t want to be heard. His mother and father both had ears for music—Wilma had spent ten years playing the French horn; Thomas had played the guitar in a garage band with three of his University friends—so they could tell when the cello was out of tune. They could tell when he made a _mistake_.

Mycroft’s lesson teacher, a nineteen-year-old University student named Elizabeth “Elli” Roberts, seemed to pick up on his…reluctance. She had seen it from the beginning. Her first impression of Mycroft Holmes was that he was a _very_ intelligent boy, more intelligent than some of the people in her courses, even. The second thing she had noticed about him was that he was very rigid. He was quiet and polite, proper and accommodating, but so _stiff._

Elli had made it her goal to make Mycroft smile. He did so, but it was always fake, always guarded. For the months that followed, Elli had started each and every lesson by asking Mycroft how his week had been and how his parents and little brother were doing. Every week, she received the same reply: ‘My week was fine, and my family is doing well, thank you for asking.’

Quiet and polite. Proper and accommodating. But so _stiff._

The other thing that Elli did at every lesson was to end it with a cello-themed joke.

‘Mycroft, what’s the range of a cello? As far as you can kick it.’

‘What do a cello and a lawsuit have in common? Everyone’s happy with the case is closed.’

‘Did you hear about the cellist that played in-tune? No? Neither did I.’

There were dozens of others. It wasn’t until Mycroft had been coming to her for lessons for five months that she looked at the boy and asked, ‘Mycroft, why do you think people take an instant dislike to the cello?’ He had only shrugged, although she could see that he was trying to repress a scowl, and he’d answered, ‘I didn’t know that they did.’ Elli had shook her head in disbelief and rolled her eyes, although she was laughing a little. ‘No, no. The reason people take an _immediate_ dislike to the cello is to save _time_.”

Elli didn’t know why, because it wasn’t the best joke she had told Mycroft, by any means, but it _was_ the one that finally made him chuckle. Finally! It had taken her five months, but she had _finally_ managed to make the boy loosen up. Upon reflection, she felt that it was possibly a combination of him laughing _at_ her and him trying to satisfy her need to make sure that her students enjoyed their time with her. Either way, she was glad that it happened.

The day was Saturday, the second week of April, and Wilma and Thomas had left to go into London and have a day of shopping, lunch, and general _bonding_. Mycroft was relieved that he’d been allowed to stay home, even if it _did_ mean that he was responsible for Sherlock. Earlier in Sherlock’s life, Mycroft had been able to set him in his crib and not have to worry about what he was doing. Mycroft would sit in his bedroom and read, one of the many baby monitors they had on his desk, and if Sherlock started to sound distraught—which happened often—he would sigh and bookmark his page, then go into the nursery.

The nursery was now a bedroom. The crib was now a toddler bed. The room was painted blue and green, the same colours that Mycroft’s room had been, and had a short bookcase, a toy chest, and a little rocking horse. Of course, none of that was entertaining enough for Sherlock, who was currently standing in the doorway of his room, his hand sliding across the wall as he walked the short distance from his bedroom to his older brother’s.

As he had expected, he found Mycroft sitting at his desk, his cheek resting in his palm while his other hand was poised at the corner of the book, ready to turn the page. Sherlock toddled over to him and reached up his hand, curling his chubby fingers into the sleeve of Mycroft’s jumper.

“Pay,” he requested, although, in Sherlock’s mind, it was an _order_. He wanted Mycroft to play, so Mycroft _had_ to do it. Sherlock pointed to the cello, which was in its case, resting against the wall in the corner of the room.

“Mycoff. Pay.”

Sherlock’s words still came out garbled, unbeknownst to him. Mycroft, though, knew _perfectly_ well that his younger brother was unable to form each and every word that he wanted to. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop Sherlock from _trying_.

“I’m not going to play now,” he responded, waving his hand without looking up from his book. “I’m reading.”

Mycroft knew that Sherlock would be disappointed by his refusal, but at least he wouldn’t be _surprised_. Mycroft normally turned him down, especially when their parents were at home. However…maybe he _should_ take advantage of the time he had, now. Not because Sherlock wanted him to, but because Mycroft _did_ need to practice. Elizabeth’s birthday was coming up in two weeks, and Mycroft was composing a piece, for her, titled ‘The Cellist’.

Music composition wasn’t his strong suit. He could figure it out, the mathematics of it and the rhythms, the key and time signatures. Despite his best efforts, though, Mycroft never felt that it was _right_. He felt that it either lacked feeling or that it had far too much; he had changed the melodies four times thus far and would probably change them another four before he played it for her.

He didn’t know why he wanted to. There was no logical cause or reason for it, and yet, when Mycroft thought about her blonde hair, her smile, the way she wore make-up that looked natural and yet enhanced all of her features…it was enough to motivate him. She was an excellent cellist, a wonderful teacher, and a lovely person. She wasn’t a complete idiot. She made him _smile_.

Mycroft had, of course, kept all of these thoughts to himself. The last thing he needed was for his mother and father to think that he had a _crush_ on his cello teacher. He _didn’t_. He just…tolerated her, like he did everyone else. Never mind the fact that it was, inexplicably, easier for him to do so with her. Never mind the fact that he actually looked forward to seeing her, especially when she wore the navy blue jumper and had her hair pulled up and her glasses on. Never mind _any_ of that.

“On second thought,” Mycroft murmured, and he shut his book and slid it to the corner of his desk. He stood and walked over to his cello, just as Sherlock was dropping onto his rear and looking up at Mycroft with wide eyes and a _thrilled_ expression on his face. Mycroft was actually going to _play_. Mycroft was going to play, and it was all because he had _told_ him to.

At least, that was the conclusion that his young mind brought him to.

Mycroft truly was incredible, in Sherlock’s eyes. Everything that he did was remarkable, even if it was just sitting and reading. He read books that had so many pages, and so many words on each page. Big words, words that Sherlock didn’t yet know how to pronounce. Whenever he clambered up into Mycroft’s lap, his curly head blocking Mycroft’s view of his book, Sherlock would point to one of the long words and then look at his brother.

‘What’s that?’ (Or, as it _sounded_ , ‘Wazzat?’)

‘Obligatory.’

‘Oh. What’s it mean?’

‘Compulsory.’

‘Com…’

‘Pulsory.’

‘Pull…pull-come…’

Once he started asking how to pronounce words, it wasn’t long before Mycroft would sigh, stand up, and then set Sherlock down on the floor before going into his own room. And locking the door. Each and every time that happened, Sherlock missed him. He would crawl or walk—whatever the case were, depending on his age—to the door and sit by it, knock on it, and call out to his brother. Mycroft never answered. Sometimes Mummy or Daddy would come and knock on it and tell Mycroft that he needed to ‘come out and play with Sherlock’, and the little boy would giggle with delight when Mycroft appeared, unable to realize that Mycroft had _only_ done so because their parents told him to.

He had the cognitive ability to realize it. He was just choosing not to. Sherlock was more intelligent than others his age. He was able to look at people and pick up on things that other people—adults—couldn’t. He learned words and concepts; he drew his own connections and conclusions. He had a phenomenal memory. One of his favorite activities was watching bugs as they skittered across the ground, before his mother would gasp at the sight of it and catch it in a jar to take it outside.

There were no bugs, now, to distract him from Mycroft’s playing. Sherlock watched as his brother took the cello and walked it back over to his desk, sitting upright with the bow poised directly over the strings. Mycroft plucked a few of them, softly, before he drew the bow across them, humming as he fiddled with the knobs at the top of the instrument. Sherlock had once asked Mycroft if he could touch them. Without even thinking about what harm could come from it, Mycroft had said ‘no’.

Mycroft began to play his composition, and just like every time, Sherlock was enraptured. He leaned forward and watched Mycroft’s hands, the right masterfully guiding the bow over the strings at the middle of the instrument and the left teasing against the strings at the neck, sometimes moving back and forth to make the note sound like it was actually _wobbling_. The sounds coming from the instrument were beautiful, but even more remarkable to Sherlock was the fact that it was _Mycroft_ who was making it make those sounds.

The song lasted for four minutes and nine seconds, and when Mycroft had finished, he looked down at his brother. Sherlock was staring at the cello but quickly looked up at him, a wide smile on his face. That gave Mycroft all the information that he needed to know, but he still found himself asking his brother what he had thought. He didn’t _really_ value Sherlock’s opinion. Surely not. What did a three year old know about music? Sherlock, however, didn’t hesitate to tell his brother what he had thought about the song.

“Pretty, Mycoff,” he promised. “Very nice. I liked it.”

Sherlock stood up and walked over to Mycroft. He put a hand on his brother’s knee and then gestured with his index finger for Mycroft to lean down closer. Mycroft, assuming that Sherlock was going to tell him something more about his playing, did so. Instead, Sherlock kissed him, right between his cheek and the corner of his mouth.

The kiss was so quick that Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to pull away, despite the fact that he _would_ have if he had seen it coming. Sherlock had never kissed him before. He kissed their parents, when Mother or Father prompted him to, but Mycroft had never done so and had been _spared_ it until now. Fortunately, Sherlock wasn’t lingering to see how he reacted to it. He was already making his way out of the room, heading into the sitting area so that he could play with his blocks.

Two weeks later, Mycroft encountered another kiss on the cheek. He was at his lesson and had told Elli—he had been unable to keep it to himself, which was _quite_ unusual for him—that he’d had a surprise for her, after cordially wishing her the customary ‘happy birthday’. He had chosen to wear dark slacks and dress shoes, a dark green jumper with a black tie. He wanted to look the part when he performed, after all. When he performed for _her._

A small bouquet of flowers was tucked into his cello case. He hadn’t bought them, because it would lead to his mother asking _questions_. Instead, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to go for a walk. He went _outside_ for a _walk_. Mycroft Holmes never did those things, but in the pursuit of flowers, he _had._

His walk had taken him into the forest, and he had found a few dog roses and some Himalayan Balsam. The flowers were the best that he could find, even though some of them were still droopy or, in his opinion, unimpressive. As his mother always told him, though, ‘it’s the thought that counts’. He tied the bouquet with a bit of string from his mother’s sewing kit and hid it beneath one of his music books, taking care not to squash the flowers too much.

The lesson began as it always did, with Elli asking him how his family was. He said that they were fine, as he always did. When she asked him how his week was, though, he looked up at her and smiled. That, and his answer, served to surprise her.

“Good. I have been eagerly awaiting my lesson.”

It wasn’t so much the lesson that he had been eagerly awaiting. He had just been looking forward to seeing _her_ and playing the piece he had written for her, giving her the flowers that he had spent two hours searching for and carefully picking. He wanted to see her face when she saw them; he wanted to hear what she had to say about the song he had written for her. He wanted to _impress_ her, the same way that he impressed his parents and teachers but also…also not the same way. He didn’t know how it was different, exactly, but it _was_.

The lesson progressed as normal, with Mycroft doing simple exercises and playing through the piece that she had assigned him to practice. He was counting down the minutes in his head, eagerly awaiting when it got to five minutes to the end. That was when he was going to stop and remind Elli of the surprise he’d brought for her. The flowers would be first, and then the song. That way, she could smell them and look at them while he played, which Mycroft thought would be quite nice.

When only five minutes remained in the lesson, Mycroft lowered his bow. Elli tilted her head to the side, curious as to why he had stopped, but just as Mycroft opened his mouth to explain, there was a knock on the practice room door. Elli turned and looked to see who had caused the sound, and she smiled _instantly._ It was a wide, bright smiler, more brilliant than any one that Mycroft had ever seen on her lips before.

There was a young, slim man standing outside the door, waving at her. In his hand he held a dozen gorgeous roses, tied together with a black, silk ribbon. They were all perfectly trimmed and shaped, standing upright, free of any dirt or bugs.

In a word, they were _better_ than the ones that Mycroft had brought.

“This is my boyfriend, Daniel,” Elli said, gesturing towards the man as he entered the room. “He takes guitar lessons here; that’s how we met. Daniel, this is Mycroft. My best student.”

Boyfriend.

Best student.

Daniel bent down and kissed Elli’s cheek, then pushed the flowers into her hand. Both of them were smiling; Elli was _blushing_. Mycroft just stared. He knew that it was rude and improper, but he was unable to pull himself away, unable to keep from doing so.

“Happy birthday, love,” Daniel told her. “I’ll be at your house around seven to fetch you.” After running his fingers through her hair he looked to Mycroft. “Sorry to interrupt, mate. You take care of her, yeah?”

 _Daniel_ kissed Elli’s cheek a second time before leaving once more. Elli’s cheeks were still tinted red, to match the bouquet she held delicately between herself and her cello. She glanced down at her watch to check the time and gasped.

“I didn’t realize it was so late already,” she admitted, carefully leaning her cello against the wall before meeting Mycroft’s eyes. The same, wide smile was on her face, the one that Daniel had put there. “You said you had a surprise for me? What is it?”

No. No, he couldn’t…he _wouldn’t_. He wasn’t going to present her with his flimsy little bouquet now, not when she had such a glorious one already. And the composition? No. Daniel played the guitar. He had probably written a song for her, too, and it would be _better_ than anything that he would have produced.

Mycroft Holmes rarely felt insecure. He had nothing to feel insecure about, nobody to be jealous of. He was smarter than everyone else, and he was _skilled_. He was ten years old and could already speak French and German alongside English, and was nearly fluent in Spanish. He could finish a thick book in only a day; he could read a dictionary and remember hundreds of words and their definitions. He was, as Elli had said herself, her best student.

But Mycroft still couldn’t bring himself to play the piece. He didn’t want to. She had a boyfriend, so what was even the _point_?

Mycroft tilted his head downwards and looked inside his open cello case. He furrowed his brow while frowning.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice as level and cool as it ever was. “I seem to have forgotten it at home. I will bring it to you next week.”

On the walk home, Mycroft threw his bouquet of flowers into the river. He got home and went straight to his room. For the rest of the evening, he mindlessly ate from a tin of biscuits and read through a book that he didn’t even _like._

The next week, he told Elli that his family was ‘fine’ and that his week had been ‘fine’.

He hadn’t brought her any sort of replacement gift. She didn’t ask.

By the end of the lesson, Mycroft had managed to convince himself—although he was, perhaps, delusional about it—that he didn’t care.

 


End file.
